


Never Trust a Mirror

by DarkShadows93



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Blood and Violence, Chaos, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Explosions, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Near Discorporation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessed!Aziraphale, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Trickety Boo 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows93/pseuds/DarkShadows93
Summary: An extremely belated fic for the 2020 Trickety Boo- Trick or Treat with prompt by redundant-angel:Aziraphale is possessed by an evil spirit and Crowley must save him.Scary rating: 2.5___Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, with Aziraphale. Crowley knew it when he strolled into the shop and found it in ruins. Books scattered about the floor, priceless tomes torn open, papers slightly singed. The joyful light that he felt when he walked in diminished into darkness; a cloud of uncertainty and fear plagued the shop, and even the entirety of Soho. It brought back memories of the fire, his throat clenching as he screamed out Azirphale’s name, panic rising in his blood. There was no fire, no smoke, no insolent fire brigade asking about the shop. It was Aziraphale in trouble. He trembled when he stared at his shattered reflection in a mirror he didn’t recognize. The glass fractured like a spider’s web, speckled with spots of ruby blood leading down to a massive pool at his feet. Blood. Crowley felt sick to his stomach, panic bubbling up to the surface as he searched every nook and cranny of the shop, only to find more blood. Aziraphale. His angel. His light was gone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	Never Trust a Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redundant_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundant_angel/gifts).



> Written for the Trickety Boo event. Check out the collections for some awesome fics written mostly by the people of the GO Events server!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [cumaeansibyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl) for being my beta for the first chapter!

_ How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also if I’m to be whole.  _ — _ Carl Jung _

Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, with Aziraphale. Crowley knew it when he strolled into the shop and found it in ruins. Books scattered about the floor, priceless tomes torn open, papers slightly singed. The joyful light that he felt when he walked in diminished into darkness; a cloud of uncertainty and fear plagued the shop, and even the entirety of Soho. It brought back memories of the fire, his throat clenching as he screamed out Azirphale’s name, panic rising in his blood. There was no fire, no smoke, no insolent fire brigade asking about the shop. It was Aziraphale in trouble. He trembled when he stared at his shattered reflection in a mirror he didn’t recognize. The glass fractured like a spider’s web, speckled with spots of ruby blood leading down to a massive pool at his feet. Blood. Crowley felt sick to his stomach, panic bubbling up to the surface as he searched every nook and cranny of the shop, only to find more blood. Aziraphale. His angel. His light was gone. 

The earth trembled as Crowley released a roar, time slowing to a mere whisper as he stormed out of the shop. All of Heaven and Hell would pay if something had happened to his angel. Four days, three nights Crowley stalked, searching like a lost soul in places he knew Aziraphale would be. Waiting for a sign that never came. 

The world seemed to be against him in every little thing: the neighborhoods of Soho and Mayfair teetered on the edge of chaos, the air tasted of demonic energy. It wasn’t difficult for Crowley to realize that it was Hell’s doing, but when he raided the office looking for him, Hastur only stated that if it was a demon, they deserved a promotion. Luckily, Hastur was greeted by a firm fist for just mentioning it. 

On the morning of the fourth day, Crowley sat at a lone table near a massive window at one of Aziraphale’s favorite cafes He stared into his cup of black coffee, hoping it would give him a sign, anything to explain the disappearance of his angel.“Fuck…” the bag of nerves that went by Crowley mumbled, still staring into the cup of coffee. The days had been wearing on him, his nerves shot by worry and caffeine to the point where Crowley couldn’t tell which was which anymore. The state of the shop still plagued him, haunted him like a spirit when he tried to sleep. Singed books, tattered pages, blood spatters on the floor clawed at his skin. Pain filled him, and nerves and anger raged, fighting for control. Whatever had happened to Aziraphale, he was hurt or trapped. Whoever had him would suffer more than Crowley ever did. If only Aziraphale had called out to him. Why didn’t he call for him?

“Mister Fell!” the cafe owner greeted him as the front door opened with a ring of the bell. “It’s nice to see you. I’ve been wondering when you would show up again!”

“An...gel?” Crowley’s head shot up, his shades falling askew as he watched Aziraphale stalked through the shop, a sly, manic grin on his lips, his angelic eyes a faded dull luster compared to the familiar glint he loved so much. He felt his body rise from the seat, his lanky arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s chest in a tight embrace. “Where the Heaven have you been?” 

Aziraphale didn’t return the embrace, his arms hung loosely at his sides, his expression emotionless and almost annoyed. “Yes, yes, quite right. I’ve just had a few things to take care of.”

Crowley frowned as he pulled away from the embrace, his nerves fraying at the edges. Something seemed odd about Aziraphale, something he couldn’t place. His scent was slightly charred, like smoke with a hint of iron, not the usual sweet musk and ambrosia. The angel’s usual joy was gone, replaced by fractured cold expression hiding behind a malicious smirk. Crowley watched carefully as Aziraphale took a seat in front of him, his left hand tapping out an erratic rhythm against the table. His brow kissed his hairline as Aziraphale rolled his eyes, waving away the shop owner as they placed a slice of angel’s food cake in front of him. 

“So, angel...” Crowley brought the cup of coffee to his lips, clearing his throat as he took a sip. It was taking everything that he had not to burst out with a million questions and concerns. He wanted nothing more than to check his body inside and out for any injuries, because it would ease his anxiety and ensure that Aziraphale, his beloved angel of the Eastern Gate, was finally safe.

“Are you — I mean — uh… I hope you’re alright, but say… erm —”

“Is there something wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale finally said, interrupting the spattering demon with a malicious smirk. “Afraid you weren’t going to see me again?”

“What?! Of course, I was bloody afraid, you daft fool!” Crowley choked on his coffee, slamming the cup down. “Your — Your shop was a-a-a mess! Shattered glass and blood on-on- the floor. You had me worryin’ like-like some — bloke in a hospital for nearly a week! Just to have you —you pop right back in a cafe like nothing… happened. But that’s not mentioning the state of some of your— books, all singed and-and destroyed like some sort of firestorm blew right in!”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not too bad,” Aziraphale replied with a shrug, apathetic to his most precious things. “Books can always be replaced, and whatnot.”

_ Books can always be replaced. _ Crowley blinked in shock as the words didn't quite register in his mind. No, impossible. Did he really just say that? Crowley stared at Aziraphale over his cup of coffee, a horrid reflection of their usual lunch dates in which the angel was the one consuming something, while Aziraphale stared at him with not so much love as a bizarre puppet-like gaze, his hand drumming away on the table. He swallowed, pulling his eyes away from the puppet stare as he pondered the words. The catastrophic phrase only made his concern for Aziraphale grow. 

First, it was the stalking. The simple way ‘Aziraphale’ walked appeared stiff as a board, or perhaps a rather large stick up the arse. He wasn’t cheerful, but almost annoyed at everyone and everything around him, when ordinarily, he would be joyful and angelic. Second, the exasperated with the sweets placed in front of him. There was only one time Crowley had seen Aziraphale not eat. It was only because he was stressed during the face swap, having to play the part of a demon who never truly ate in public. It was understandable then, but now? He would be crying just to eat. Third, and finally, the total disregard of the state of his shop  _ and  _ his books. Aziraphale would never say something as careless as  _ books can always be replaced. _ Books were his treasure. Books were his life. If Crowley were asked, he would say that the books were more important to Aziraphale than his love for the demon.

After six thousand years of pining and falling in love with the angel, Crowley felt like he knew Aziraphale as well as he knew the back of his hand, which was pretty damn well if he said so himself. Crowley knew if there was something wrong. It was like a second sense that just grew over the years. This sense, whatever it was called, flared to life as he glared at the figure before him, telling him one thing. This was not Aziraphale. 

“Crowley?” The way the ‘Not-Aziraphale’ purred his name as he leaned across the table didn’t settle with him well. It was the blank, dull expression he wore like a mask that got him. Crowley’s eyes shot to the figure’s left hand, the drumming growing louder, more desperate as the right hand reached for his trembling hands. When did it become evident that he was nervous? “Oh my dear, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen something dreadful.”

“Wha? Nooooo, just…” Crowley pulled his hands away quickly, straining out the words as he fought to keep his gaze on the drumming hand, “It’s just…” He chewed on his lips, biting back the words that he wanted to say.  _ Where is Aziraphale? What the fuck did you do to him?  _ The words, he knew, would cause more harm than good. It would probably get Aziraphale discorporated, or worse, destroyed, if Crowley demanded his safekeeping. Instead, he decided to play it smart. Play it cool. But how? He stared at the forgotten piece of cake and smirked.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t worry about me, angel. I’m more so worried about you. You alright, then? Not feeling even a tiny bit hungry? Why don’t we talk about what happened to you? Ease some of the stress off of my tired body.”

“Oh, must I?” The Not-Aziraphale scoffed, pushing away the dessert with his free hand, giving him a smile that revealed too many teeth for Crowley’s liking. “It’s nothing much, really. Nothing horrendous, I must say. But I will say that I feel heavenly now that it happened. I feel… free. Yes, I feel truly  _ free.”  _

Free. The words felt like a cold dagger scraping across his skin, the blade leaving small cuts that burned from the cold sensation in the air. What did the Not-Aziraphale mean by free? Free from what? Free from constriction? Free from torture? Free from chains? Free  _ what?  _ The word itself could be a warning. An omen of ill repute of what’s to come, the good or the bad. Bad seemed more appropriate for a being that claimed to be an angel, but who left a treasure trove of books and history in total dismay. 

“Free?” The word seemed to slip out before Crowley had a chance to stop it. The question caused the Not-Aziraphale to smile like a mad hatter, a sickening smile that made Crowley’s stomach sour and churn. “Ngk…” he croaked as he loosened his silver tie, “what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, Crowley…” Not-Aziraphale sang softly, his voice as soft as a whisper on the wing, his sickening smile never faltering as he reached for his hand.

A stone formed in Crowley’s throat, cementing everything that he had learned of this Not- Aziraphale. Hidden behind his dark shades, his eyes widened as he watched in the figure’s eyes a flicker of red in a sea of blue, like a blood droplet bleeding into a pool of water. Two colors, ruby and grey, fighting for control, like a storm cloud on the horizon. A demon’s eyes in the body of an angel. 

Not-Aziraphale tutted as he attempted to suffocate the drumming hand. The rhythm became erratic and somewhat familiar.  _ Taptaptap  _ — _ tap tap tap  _ —  _ aptaptap. _ Aziraphale would have scolded him for not knowing such a pattern. But what was it? He hissed as he tried to pull back hundreds of years of memories, lessons, and experiences to recognize it. 

“Oh, Crowley….” Not-Aziraphale sang once more as he tried to suffocate the drumming hand. He rolled his neck in annoyance, baring sharp fangs. “You of all demons should know what freedom means.” He motioned to his form, loosening the tartan bowtie. “After all, you and this… horrid angel are the epithets of freedom.” 

"Who the fuck are you?" Crowley hissed, pressing his body against the table, baring fangs at Not-Aziraphale, the demon hidden within an angel’s clothing. “Where the fuck is Aziraphale?”

Not-Aziraphale shrugged, sighing calmly as he chewed on the soft, luscious lips for a brief moment before going back to the malicious grin. “Must you create a scene, Crowley? I mean, look at all of these pathetic human beings enjoying their final meal. Why should you be the one to ruin it over a silly little spat?”

"Jusst answer my fucking question. Where is he?”

“The angel is fine, Crowley. Rest assured, I wouldn’t just leave him in a rut. Well, I would say that he might be enjoying himself, watching as the world goes by, no one to pester him over those stupid tomes. So please, let me have my fun. I never get to play outside anymore.”

Crowley's eyes widened as Aziraphale's form quickly pulled a miracle from below, the angel's skin turning a horrendous black around the knuckles. He tried to lunge forward to stop the impending miracle but, as his hand grasped the corporation’s wrist, Aziraphale only chuckled and snapped. The kitchen of the cafe exploded with the heat of hellfire, glass shattering around them as the patrons fell to the ground, blood pooling all around them. Death left a sick film in the air. Crowley growled, baring demonic fangs as he grabbed at Aziraphale’s jacket, the damn creature only giving him a glee-filled smile as he snapped his fingers once more. Another discharge went off near Crowley, sending him exploding out the shattered window, a large shard embedding in his side as he crashed into a parked car.

Pandemonium filled the streets, people running in all directions. The screams of the dying filled the air as the Not-Aziraphale stood simply from his seat. Kicking away the destroyed table, he rolled his neck as he adjusted his nearly pristine jacket, ruined by a spot of soot near the collar.

“Wasn’t that fun, my dear boy,” he stated as he climbed through the shattered window, glass crushing beneath his feet. He chuckled as he kneeled before the struggling demon.“Now, what does that vile detective say in those books again? Ah, yes: the game’s afoot, Crowley. Come find your precious angel.”

Crowley pulled his hand from the other’s demon’s grip, groaning as he saw it painted red. He hissed, drawing from every ounce of strength to stand, his legs buckling as he shambled towards the Not-Aziraphale. “Bassstard.” Fuck, it was getting hard to breathe. With all the smoke and the pain, oh, the pain was deadly. Nothing he had ever experienced before in six thousand years — he could discorporate just by standing there. Black clouded his vision, anger and blood loss making him delusional.He reached towards the Not-Aziraphale, blood staining that pristine jacket as he grabbed the lapels. “Don’t… don’t doubt that I will. I’ll find him… and…” He fell towards the ground, curling on himself from the pain. “And when I do… I’ll throw you in the deepest pit of —”

“Look at the state of this jacket, Crowley,” Not-Aziraphale tutted as he tried to wipe away the ruby-red blood from the lapels. “This was a rather nice jacket. A shame it must be ruined by your filth.”

“Gimme… back… my…”

“Hm?” Not-Aziraphle hummed as he glanced down to the withering demon. “What was that, my dear?” Oh, did you say you wanted your angel back? You want me to surrender because you think that you’re some  _ big nasty demon _ that can scare me into submission?” He pouted as he kicked away Crowley’s hand. "Oh, tut-tut, my dear sweet little Crowley, let me have fun. Let me enjoy this rather fun game we’re playing. Then, maybe, just maybe, I will give you back your precious angel. But, for now, can you do me a favor, my dear boy? Do me a favor by taking your time — there is so much destruction to be made. Ta-ta!”

“No — no — basstard!” Crowley bellowed, clawing at the pavement as the Not-Aziraphale evaporated in a thick cloud of smoke, just as the ambulances and the fire brigade came on to the scene. Crowley screamed until his voice grew hoarse, clawing at the pavement until his nails were raw and bleeding. Like when the Bentley was held together by his sheer willpower, it took everything he had to not discorporate, but the mere thought of appearing before Hastur and Beelzebub could make anyone turn away from death.

As the blood loss pulled him towards unconsciousness, Crowley could swear that he saw the figure of a posh archangel: thin, short, feminine. Michael, perhaps. As they approached him, everything faded into nothing. 


End file.
